Page 95 of Emperor of Corruption
The fact that she might not care for me is irrelevant. She’ll still do what I tell her to do.
The drive back to the hotel is over two hours long, and I take the time to answer some messages, thenthinkas the scenery flies by outside my window. Think of what I’ve been doing and consider next steps.
Lyra’s expecting me to let her go two days from now. I told her I would—I repeatedly assured her that she’s too far beneath me to merit any long-term attention.
That may not be as true as I wish it was. Lyra may be below my tax bracket, but she matches me in ambition. In cleverness. In intelligence and in her ability to read people. She matches me in being asurvivor—someone who keeps going no matter how many barriers the world throws up at them.
She might not be worthy of me by virtue of the number in her bank account… but she’s worthy in every other way. In every way thatcounts.We reside in different worlds, but I’m confident that given enough time and attention, she’ll learn to fit into mine.
I’m not sure exactly what it is I want from her, but I do know that I’m not done with her. Not by a long shot.
My phone starts buzzing about halfway through the drive—Locke’s name flashes across the screen. I suck in a sharp breath.He’s under instruction to only disturb me if something is wrong with Lyra, such as her being in danger.
I pick up the call, trying to curb the urgency in my tone. “What is it?”
“There’s something you need to see,” Locke says.
My heart rises to my throat. “What’s wrong? Is she safe?”
“She’s fine,” Locke replies. “But there’s something you have to know before seeing her again. Let’s talk when you get back.”
“Tell me,” I demand. If Lyra’s fine, then what the fuck is Locke going on about? What’s his goddamn problem?
“It’s a conversation to be had in person. Let’s talk before you go back to the room.”
My jaw tightens, but I don’t argue. When Locke refuses to say something over the phone, there’s typically a very good reason for it. “Fine,” I say, and hang up. “Go faster,” I instruct my driver, knuckles tightening. Locke assured me there’s nothingwrongwith Lyra, which makes me think she’s done something I’ll need to punish her for. If she’s been researching Silas or trying to dig into me again, I’ll need to put a stop to it swiftly and succinctly—and use the sort of pain evenshewouldn’t enjoy as a deterrent.
I meet Locke half an hour later, when the car pulls up in front of the hotel entrance, I step out onto the rough cobblestone and stride up to Locke.
“What is it?” I demand.
He sweeps a glance around the open space, then waves for me to follow him inside. He navigates through several corridors on the first floor until we come upon an ancient library. Wooden and stone shelves line the walls, reaching so high up, the books near the ceiling are a blur. There are several ladders for people to climb, and a spiral staircase leading to two balconies that hug the walls. Locke leads me to the backcorner of the library, where a few leather armchairs face a fireplace. We both sink into seats across from each other.
“No cameras or bugs here,” Locke says. “We’ve got a problem.”
“Spit it out,” I hiss. “What has she done now?”
Locke shakes his head. “It's not whatshe’sdone, it’s whatyou’vedone.” He takes a seat on an armchair—I take the one across from him, bracing my elbows on my knees and leaning forward. “Lyra’s pregnant,” Locke tells me.
My mind momentarily clears of thought as his words filter through my thoughts.
Lyra’s pregnant.Pregnant?
My lips part, then shut, then part once again. My pulse thuds so violently it almost aches. Some unnamed emotion fills me to the brim—something so foreign and unrecognizable, I can’t put a name to it.
“How do you know?” is what manages to escape my lips.
“She was out this morning,” Locke says. “Went to a café, then stopped by a pharmacy before coming back here. I tipped the maids assigned to your room to let me know if they saw anything odd.” He reaches into the pocket of his pea coat, and withdraws a vaguely-familiar looking stick. A pregnancy test with a blue cap. He hands it over to me, and I gaze down at it.
Two unmistakable pink lines sit in the center of it, indicating pregnancy.
“There are two others just like it, both showing the same result,” Locke says. “There’s no mistaking it. She’s pregnant.”
Pregnant. Lyra’s pregnant. With my child.
“I thought you told me she’s on birth control,” I mumble, struggling to process the fact that I now have an heir brewing in an infuriating woman’s womb.
“She is, and I’ll bet she takes those pills religiously. But she was sick a while ago, right? Took antibiotics with penicillin? Those can fuck with the effectiveness of birth control. And, if not for that, oral pills aren’t 100% effective. They’re close, but there’s still a small risk.”
